


The King in the Iron Castle

by courgette96



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Confusion, Demon Tony, Demons, Dubious Consent, M/M, Mind Control, Psychological Horror, Rape/Non-con Elements, kind of, spoilers in the tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-09
Updated: 2015-09-09
Packaged: 2018-04-19 22:57:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4764113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/courgette96/pseuds/courgette96
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is the luck of every King to have a loyal servant at his side.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The King in the Iron Castle

**Author's Note:**

> No beta, all mistakes are mine.

The King wakes up slowly, the dim rays of sunlight that reach him through the curtain gently caressing his face. It is a pale day.

With a sigh, he gets up, looking over the large and empty space that makes his bedroom. It is rather barren in its furnishing despite the opulent decorations carved within the iron walls: a bed, large and comfortable, a desk and a chair, a bookshelf in the corner. There is also Anthony, waiting at his side.

Anthony never leaves his side.

Standing up, he indicates at his servant to follow him towards the room that holds all of his clothes.

“Dress me,” he orders sharply.

Anthony bows low. “My King.”

 

 *

 

The affairs of state are dull, and therefore extremely difficult to focus upon. Loki often finds himself reading page after page of official documents, only to find that he can only vaguely remember what was written there when he puts them down.

With a frustrated sigh, he lets his head fall backward. “What news of the borders?” he asks, pinching his brow.

Anthony steps forward. “There has been no unrest noted, my liege.”

Loki hums in acknowledgement, frowning. “Was there not an incident a few months back? Whatever came of it?”

“It has been resolved, my King, and most adequately.”

Satisfied, Loki goes back to his papers.

 

 *

 

The castle is made of iron. An odd choice, really, and not something he would have chosen himself. However, he is not so vain as to have it all redone just to suit his tastes, so he makes do.

It is solid, that much he will say for it, and the blue lights that illuminate his rooms make for a most pleasing effect. It speaks of strength as well, and if it is perhaps slightly austere the flashes of gold and red spread throughout the building do give it some warmth.

No, there is little to complain about this palace, all things considered.

But his steps echo along the hall, and it is all so cold.

 

 *

 

Loki gets lonely at times. It is to be expected: being king is a solitary duty, after all.

Still, the days can be long, and he has no family that comes to visit him, no friends within the grounds. No one comes at all.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees his attendant put away the paper and quill he has discarded. The sight makes the tension ebb from his shoulders, a little.

Loki gets lonely at times. But he has Anthony.

(Anthony is _always_ there).

 

 *

 

“Do you not have other duties to attend to?” Loki snaps one day. His attendant is hovering, which distracts him immensely from his book. Reading is one of the few entertainments he has left these days, he will not be disturbed.

Despite his Lord’s anger, Anthony smiles, like a kind-looking wolf.

“No, my King.”

 

 *

 

It is a grey day today. Anthony dresses him slowly today, his fingers lingering upon Loki’s bare skin.

Loki merely looks straight ahead.

 

 *

 

“Must I really wear all this jewelry, Anthony?” It is most unkingly to whine as he does, but Loki allows himself that much in the privacy of his quarters.

“It is symbolic of your station, and most dignified, my King,” Anthony answers teasingly, fitting him with another bracelet to match the one already on his other wrist.

“It is gaudy,” Loki mumbles back, but lets himself be fitted with the ornament.

“Ah, yes, the hardship of a King,” his servant chuckles. “Made to wear fine metal and precious stones.”

His thumb brushes against his skin, smooth and so pale the veins are visible underneath (was he always this pale?)

“I dress you in the finest clothing every day,” Anthony murmurs. “Green silk and dark leather, gold embroidery. Yet still you complain.” He raises Loki’s arm, brushes his lips against its underside. He looks at his king, mocking, gentle, victorious, and curious. “I find it most amusing.”

He kisses the smooth expanse of flesh.

(Loki thought he might bite him).

“You forget yourself,” the King snaps, snatching his hand away. “I am your King; know your place.”

He gets up in a huff, resisting the urge to take those damn things off. He truly does not care for them. They feel constricting.

 

 *

 

He will never admit this to anyone, but he finds the guards in his palace unnerving.

He never sees their faces, clad as they are in their armor of gold and red with faceplates devoid of anything apart from two fine slits for them to see through. They do not talk, either. In fact, Loki has never seen them do much of anything.

There is also the strange feeling he gets whenever he approaches them. He cannot find words to describe it. Or rather, he finds one, but it sounds mad and meaningless even in his own mind.

The palace guards feel empty.

 

 *

 

He sits on the throne, looking dispassionately at the large and mostly empty room before him. Apart from Anthony and him, only the guards stand here, spending hours on end on their feet within their heavy armor.

Such a time is reserved for audiences, when his subjects can come to him and voice their concerns and complaints. There is no one here though, there never is.

He voices his remark to Anthony, his brows furrowing in confusion. Surely, at least one of his people must have come, surely…

“If your subjects have no complaints, then they have no reason to come,” his servants says softly, his hand resting on Loki’s shoulder in reassurance. “If no one is here, it means that all is well.”

Loki can feel himself relax in his throne. He slumps backwards, a small smile gracing his lips. Inactivity makes him restless, which in turns makes him anxious, it is in his nature. But perhaps this empty hall truly is a sign of peace.  

He is a good ruler.

“All is well,” he says softly, contently.

The hand on his shoulder tightens its grip. “All is well,” his servant repeats.

 

 *

 

Some days, he sits on his throne and is suddenly gripped with the knowledge that he shouldn’t be here.

It sends him trembling, makes him want to get up and run, yet he stays seated because he is King here, he is a king he is a king he is the king and he must stay here because it is his duty and he was _born to be king,_ but he does not want to sit on this throne, not this one, not any, or does he? Maybe?

He wants to cry, he giggles.

He should carve one of his eye out, the throne would be a better fit then. He would look the part.

Why does he think that?

He shouldn’t be here, he shouldn’t be here, oh Norns, he….

Arms come to wraps around him, pulling him closer towards a hard chest. He buries his face in the dark red leather, and sobs silently as Anthony hushes him, petting his hair and kissing the top of his head.

“You are so beautiful when you shatter,” he murmurs gently, “my King.”

Loki holds on to him for dear life.

 

 *

 

“Perhaps some fresh air would do me good,” he reflects one evening as he looks into his mirror. He seems so very pale to his own eyes, like he hasn’t seen the sunlight in weeks. It is almost sickly-looking.

Anthony looks up into the mirror, setting down the comb he had been using to brush back Loki’ hair. (It has gotten so long, when did that happen?)

“Perhaps,” his servant agrees politely.

In the end, Loki never does go outside.

 

 *

 

When was it that he became King?

 

 *

 

The pale day is over, and so are his duties. It is with some relief that he removes the clothes that come with his station; they are beautiful, of course, but somewhat stifling after a few hours.

Anthony takes them off him carefully, leaving the room briefly to put them away. When he returns, Loki is still standing, chest bare and pale. The King turns around slowly, making his way towards the bed.

“Anthony, I have need of you.”

Those words are all it takes. Anthony seems all too eager.

Loki is king, he may do as he wishes. Whatever pleasure he decides to take are the concern of no other but him.

If he wishes to lay himself on the bed, let his servant crawl over him, allow himself to be taken, then it shall be as he wishes.

Anthony’s breath is hot against his neck, his right arm is wrapped around his waist as his other hand wraps itself around his hardness.

“You - ah!” Loki cries out as a well-aimed thrust causes his vision to white out. He pants heavily, swallowing a moan. “You… you are not to leave my bed tonight.”

Against his skin, Anthony’s lips twist into a grin. “As you wish, My King,” he purrs.

 

 *

 

When he wakes up, Anthony lies in bed beside him. When he tries to get up, his servant pulls him back down and holds him close.

Loki does not say anything, and does not move again until he is released.

 

 *

 

“I used to be a Trickster, once,” Loki says to the empty air, the words escaping him before he can give them any conscious thought.

He turns around to see Anthony frown. “My King?” he asks carefully. If Loki didn’t know any better, he would say that his attendant is displeased.

Indeed, it is odd that Loki should say such a thing. It is not right of a ruler to reveal personal information to one below him, no matter how close he may think they are. Proper distance must be kept.

So why did he speak at all?

“I would often play tricks,” he continues. He cannot seem to stop, the words bringing up some nagging thought he cannot seem to catch. “Pranks, jokes. No one was safe, although I always enjoyed targeting my b…” He stops, the word dying on his tongue.

Who did he enjoy tricking so much? Who…

“I cannot remember,” he says quietly, shivering slightly. “I cannot…”

Anthony is in front of him suddenly, kneeling by the side of his chair. His hands grip Loki’s wrists on the armrests, almost painfully.

That is unacceptable. His servant should not be touching him so freely, let alone so aggressively. It is an outrage, an insult, and by all rights Loki should have struck him for it, or at the very least ban him from his service.

He says nothing.

“My liege,” Anthony says softly. His voice feels like smoke wrapping itself around him. “I understand that your duties make you yearn for simpler times.”

Of course they do. He never wanted to be king, he remembers that much.

“But it will not do for you to linger on the past when you have a kingdom to rule,” he continues, eyes soft as he reaches up and tucks a strand of Loki’s hair behind his ear. Much too impudent, much too familiar.

Loki’s eyes flutter closed, and he sighs contently.

“So we mustn’t linger on the past, mustn’t we? It has no place here.”

Eyes still closed, Loki nods slowly.

“Of course.” It is good that he has such a loyal servant by his side, ready to help him should he ever falter on his path. It is good.

The kiss Anthony places on his forehead feels like a burn.

 

 *

 

Anthony brings him food, but he never seems to eat. Loki never sees cooks, or other servants, or maids, or even court-dwellers.

He never sees anyone.

The palace is empty (like the guards).

 

 *

 

He doesn’t remember when Anthony came into his service.

(Then again, he doesn’t remember much).

 

 *

 

One day his boredom leads him to let his mind wander, and childishly snap his fingers just to have something to do. The sharp noise fills the hall, rhythmic and reliable so long as Loki never stops. But he tires eventually, and when he puts his hand down there is not even an echo there to pretend that what he did had any impact on the emptiness.

His fiddles with his hands, his bracelet, and it truly is difficult to move his wrists with these things on.

Inactivity has made him more prone to irritation, so at the thought and sight of the offending ornament he pulls it off, rather violently, before throwing it on the ground.

When he does so, a spark of light erupts from his hand. Holding it up in shock, he sees his fingers glowing green.

“What…?” he whispers, fascinated, even as his eyes tear up slight.

The warmth and glow seem to sing to him, and looking upon it he can feel his heart ache with a longing he cannot describe.

In his mind’s eye, he sees a flash of green, a shimmer of gold. Long blond hair and a gentle smile.

Who is it who smiles?

And then he is being pulled up by the wrist - what strength, what unimaginable strength-  and stumbles straight into Anthony’s chest, his back against the firm muscles. Before he can form any sort of protest, a hand comes to wrap itself over his eyes, and he is left uselessly clutching his attendant’s arm.

“You overwork yourself, my King. You should let yourself rest.”

Loki falls back.

 

 *

 

He wakes up in his room. It is a pale day.

Anthony is standing at his side.

 

 *

 

Tonight is a most passionate affair.

Loki pants and gasps, clutching at the sheets and face buried within the pillows. His arm reaches out, as if he were trying to crawl away.

Anthony does not relent, continuing to give all he can give until his King is satisfied. And after that until pleasure makes him blind.

And oh, what pleasures are to be found here!

It will never end, he decides then. He is the King, he will get what he wants. Loki wants this, and Anthony supplies readily.

His servant pulls back the King’s arm, pinning it behind his back. He licks Loki’s neck, nibbles the crook of his shoulder.

Loki wants this.

 

 *

 

It is a rainy day. The thunder’s rumble is distractingly loud.

“Anthony, close the shutters,” Loki says without looking up from his book.

 

 *

 

A raven comes at the windowsill. Anthony chases it away without being prompted.

 

 *

 

The usual emptiness of the throne room is shattered by the sound of the large metal doors being flung open.

“Brother!”

A blond man comes rushing into the throne room, covered in the grime and sweat that can only come from a battle. His gaze never strays from Loki, a cross between determination, joy and desperation.

Anthony hisses from his place besides him. Of course, his servant so dislikes interruptions and disrespect, and this man is most uncouth indeed.

“Brother,” the man calls out again, stalking forward, “our companions are fighting the swarm behind me, but they are only four against so many! Come quickly, for there is little time.”

He comes closer, still, too close to the throne. The guards - where did they come from? - intercept him. The disrupting man growls, raises his hammer as if to smash them all, and no, that will not do, there mustn’t….

The King rises from his throne quickly, and takes half a step forward. Once up, he hesitates, stops, he…

The man stops as well, and looks at him expectantly. Why does he look at him that way?

Ah, yes, true.

He should speak.

“Whoever is that brother you seek, you will not find him here.”

His voice sounds loud and solemn to his own ears, his words filling the heavy silence that has installed itself ever after they are spoken.

Anthony hums contently. The man’s face distorts into horror. “What, no, bro…” Fury flashes within those blue eyes, and - strangest of things - he turns towards his servant, howling with rage. “You foul, horrid creature, what have you…?”

“You overstep your boundaries, intruder,” Anthony states coldly, stepping forward to Loki’s side. He then turns towards his King, and cradles his face with the palm of his hand.

Loki allows it.

“My king,” Anthony murmurs, “you should not allow such a petty thing to disrupt your day. Return to your throne, and your servant shall take care of this for you.”

Loki looks at him hesitantly. The man here is most insistent, and his presence seems to fill Loki with a sense of unease and frustration. He should deal with this himself, should turn towards the man and see…

But Anthony’s eyes flash golden, his palm is so very warm and Loki cannot help but lean into it. Yes, yes of course, his servant is right.

Without another word, he returns to his throne, and when he sits down he no longer looks at the disruptive brute. Rather, his eyes stay fixed upon his most loyal and beautiful servant, who turns back towards the intruder.

He looks amused, Loki notes distantly.

“I would take care of how you use that hammer, Prince Thor,” Anthony says with a smirk, “who knows what consequences the damage it brings may have. Those gathered here could very well be injured.”

Yes, that is true, no weapons should be allowed here. But the man’s name is Thor, and how does Anthony know?

The warrior growls. “Injury is the least of what I would inflict upon you.”

“But what about my King? Would you bring him harm?” Anthony smiles poisonously as the man hesitantly lowers his weapon, murder in his eyes. His servant walks down the steps of the dais, closer to the barrier formed by the guards in their metal armor. Closer to the man who is overflowing with rage.

Loki frowns. He does not want the two of them so close. It is unsafe…

He does nothing.

“He is not your King,” Thor growls.

That is wrong, very wrong. Of course Loki is king.

“No?” Anthony looks around in mock confusion. “But it seems so elegant a solution!” He turns back towards the intruder, his posture exuding a dark sort of mirth. “Was it not you who wished for glory upon you both? Was it not you who came to my castle in order to end my - how did you put it? - vicious rule?” He walks back up the dais, smiling benevolently at his King. “Was it not your brother who wished to be your equal?”

The words make little sense to Loki, but he does not comment upon them. They are unimportant.

“Does this arrangement not fulfil everyone’s desire?” A smirk. “Well, it certainly fulfils mine” He leans down, and presses a kiss to the King’s cheek. Loki can feel his eyes flutter close.

Something between a gasp and a wretch come from the man, as the nature of his… relationship with his servant becomes evident. He looks vaguely ill.

Loki can feel a stab of irritation flood through him. He is King, he can do as he wishes. The man has no business judging him and his choices.

Anthony seems unconcerned, but he himself does not intend to just brush off such daring. The man’s questioning, his very presence is giving him a migraine.

“You craven, honorless, disgusting fiend!” Thor roars. “Release my brother this instance!”

“You have no brother here,” Loki says sharply, not taking his eyes of Anthony. “Be gone.”

His servant smiles approvingly.

Indeed, it is good that Loki remains firm on these matters, especially if the fool would want to invoke sentiment.

His servant leans closer, and whispers into his ear. “You are doing so well, my King.”

Loki preens.

Thor’s breath is heavy, his entire frame shaking with restrained rage and violence. “You.. you…” He takes a deep breath, and turns towards Loki once more. “Loki, my brother, you must remember, you are of Asgard, you are a prince…”

“I am a king,” Loki says softly.

His head hurts.

The man grits his teeth, closes his eyes, his face scrunched up in something like pain. “We left on a quest, with the Warrior Three and Sif, to rid these lands of the foul demon that plagued it. Remember, Loki, we…”

“We?” His servant’s surprise is obviously feigned. “I thought it was your idea?”

A gasp, a whimper… are those tears?

“Brother, I am sorry, I am so sorry for all I have done that has led you here,” the man says pleadingly. “Please, whatever foul enchantment is upon you, I know you can overcome. You are the greatest mage in the realms, surely...”

“Had the situations been reversed, do you think he would have been able to save you?” Anthony asks him lightly, kneeling besides the throne to caress Loki’s cheek with the tip of his fingers. The King looks at his delighted face – his servant is very handsome, is he not? “Not that such considerations are important. I like you not, crown prince; this one here is much more pleasing.”

Loki feels himself smile at that. Yes, so kind, so wonderful that he should be found superior to Thor. So fulfilling, all he wanted was such consideration. He leans his face into his servant’s hand, and Anthony smiles in return.

Everything is so wonderful.

“Please, brother!” The man’s voice turns to desperation. “You are sorely missed within Asgard. Our mother, our father…”

The king recoils then, frowning. Mother, Mother, the smile, she...who…

His body is trembling violently, he can feel his nails digging into his palms. He stumbles to a stand, away from Anthony who hisses in displeasure and away from the man who looks both worried and hopeful.

He can feel sweat dripping down his forehead, one hand fisting into his hair as he sees flashes of threads, a spear, a throne that is not his own, gold, gold, but there is only iron here…

His head hurts so much.

From the corner of his eyes, he can see the man, Thor, Thor it is Thor he… the man trying to step closer to him, but the guards push him away. He isn’t using his hammer, why isn’t…

Anthony is before him now, blocking his vision, so, so close - wasn’t he smaller? - and his eyes are shining and the hand on his shoulder burns hot.

Loki feels like he is drowning, and the touch is the only anchor he has.

(He will probably drown because of it).

He takes a shaky breath, before turning sharply on his heels, walking towards the side door.  Anthony follows him.

“I have entertained you enough,” he says with more conviction than he feels. “Leave.”

“No, Loki..!”

The King doesn’t turn around, even as the sound of metal clashing against metal is heart, even as pieces of armor go flying around him and the man howls, begs, cries out for a brother who is not there.

There is one cry, full of rage and agony and blood-lust, cut short when the heavy metal door slams shut.

Silence.

It is always so very quiet here.

Strong hands flip him around, and there stands Anthony, eyes gleaming with pleasure, smile sharp and vicious. A soft growl from his servant is all the warning he gets before he is being roughly shoved back, and lands on the large bed within his chambers.

Weren’t they is a hallway mere moments ago?

Anthony prowls over him, his hips pinning his own against the bed as Loki’s clothing is being ripped off.

“You are too bold,” Loki says distantly, for it is not appropriate for a servant to be so forward with his liege. Anthony should know better.

Loki does nothing to stop him though.

His admonishment does nothing to chastise his servant. To the contrary, Anthony looks up, eyes wild and his grin a picture of delight. “My King.”

Loki arches an eyebrow. “Yes?”

And Anthony laughs. Even as he caresses his liege’s chest, spreads his legs and caresses his crevice, he laughs. Even as the king gasps and moans as he is slowly being prepared, even as they kiss Loki can feel the rumble of laughter within his servant’s chest.

“My little King.”

Loki is being held firmly against the bed; Anthony is much stronger than he would have believed. The king gasp, and mewls, is left a wanton mess as his servant uses tongues and hands and teeth to pull out moans from him.

Anthony is serving him so well.

When Anthony enters him, he does so roughly, like a conqueror, bruising grip on Loki’s hips as he growls. “My King.”

Loki gasps. The brutality is new, surely he will bruise, and oh, it is unthinkable that a servant would take such liberties with his sovereign. “Yes,” he moans. Nails dig into his flesh, drawing blood. “Yes.”

The pace is fast and brutal, Anthony both growling and cackling as he plunges into his king. Loki’s head rolls back, mouth parted open.

“My King.” Said as mockery, as a secret joke.

Yes, Loki thinks, I am King here, yes.

The iron of the walls seem darker now, the details of the room blur together. He cannot seem to find a window upon the wall, yet the storm outside seems to shake the very foundation of the palace.

The hardness inside of him shifts its angle, and making him see stars and lights and he cannot remember what it is he was thinking about moments ago.

“My King,” like an endearment. The room grows darker, Anthony’s eyes shine brighter.

What a beautiful servant he has.

“ _My_ King. _My_ King.”

Loki’s hand reaches between them, trying to give his aching shaft the friction it is begging for. As his fingers wrap around it, Anthony slaps them away.

Obediently, Loki puts his hand back on Anthony’s back.

“Tell me who you are. Tell him, the one who watches yet does not act. The old man on his throne, all-seeing, all-wise, and powerless. Tell _him!_ ”

“Your King.” he gasps, not understanding but obeying none the less. “I am your King.”

“Aye,” Anthony laughs. “Aye. My King. Now and always, are you not?”

“Yes.”

It is loud, joyful, and perhaps more than anything perverse the way his servant delights in his title. So Loki says it again, and again, driving Anthony to exhilaration. He laughs grows wilder and wilder, as if he had played a joke on the world, and the world burned for it.

He thinks he hears someone calling out his name in the distance.

Anthony grabs him by the neck, pulls him into a bloody kiss.

When he reaches his peak, when he spills himself into Loki and taints him even further, he does so with a cry. “ _Mine!”_

Yes, Loki thinks as his own pleasure follows, as Anthony bites and scratches, and darkness claims him. Yes, that is the truth.

 

 *

 

The King wakes up slowly, the dim rays of sunlight that reach him through the curtain gently caressing his face.

Anthony is at his side.

Anthony never leaves.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is brought to you by my immense craving for Demon Tony.


End file.
